


The Island

by tilda



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M, Open Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 12:56:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tilda/pseuds/tilda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry turns up in Ibiza.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Island

**Author's Note:**

> As we know, this never happened. This exists in a universe without the cake interview or London Fashion Week, where Nick didn’t celebrate his birthday on holiday, and they never went to Mallorca. Also as is probably v obvious, I know nothing about yoga. Sorry. Thank you to Tarte, as always. Especially for that one line.

Nick isn’t prepared for Harry in Ibiza. 

He wasn’t even sure Harry was going to be there – not after the handful of vague texts they’d exchanged – so he’s not ready to see him full stop. But he’s not ready for _what_ he sees either. Yeah, there have been pictures here and there – online, in magazines – but they’re either blurry pap shots, or so photoshopped Harry doesn’t even look human. So Nick isn’t prepared for the living breathing thing that bursts off a dancefloor at him without warning: tanned, sweaty and alive.

‘Nick!’

His voice sounds out above the noise of the people and the music and then Nick is being folded against that real body, heavy with muscle, before they’re pulling apart. Harry’s shirt is open, his shorts are riding low and Nick struggles heroically to look at his face. 

‘You look amazing,’ flops out of his mouth before he can stop it. 

‘Thanks,’ Harry says, genuinely pleased, as he is by any compliment, as if it had never occurred to him to look in a mirror, and it was all a lucky accident. Maybe it was. He hugs everyone Nick’s with – Pix and Aimee and Ian and the rest – and Nick realises Harry hasn’t seen _them_ in seven months either. He buys Nick a drink and then he gets dragged back to the dancefloor by whoever he was with, or maybe some random stranger, and every so often he appears over by Nick, and dances at him, sometimes with a gurn and a cartoon hip-grind, but sometimes so that Nick doesn’t bother to look at his face, just drinks him in. 

It’s like he’s lit from the inside. 

Nick’s been around a lot of stars in his life, and knows they operate at a different wattage to ordinary people, and he always knew there was something special about Harry. You’d have to be blind and deaf not to notice it. But at the same time he was still just Harry, a kid. Harry didn’t know how to control his wattage – let it flicker out when he most needed it, and turned it on indoors when he didn’t. And even though Harry leaked starshine without even knowing it, Nick felt safe, like he was never in any danger from someone who stumbled over his words and his own feet, and made jokes as lame as Harry’s. Nick knew that when Harry grew up and could control his... _power_ , or whatever it was, he’d probably rule the world. But it wasn’t something that occupied Nick much. He mostly just liked Harry, liked hanging out with him, and liked the fucking. And that was it.

Now here he is again, and though he isn’t quite ruling the world, he’s ready to. Nick reckons he’s still safe as his gaze lifts to meet Harry’s and something clicks, like it used to, and he gives in, because who wouldn’t? They don’t go to the gents – way too dangerous – but when Harry leans in later and says, ‘Come back to mine,’ Nick does. 

And Harry lies back on the bed in his villa, moonlight slanting in over his body through the billowing curtains, and holds out his hand to Nick. And Nick goes to settle between his thighs but Harry softly says ‘no’, sliding down underneath him and tugging at Nick’s armpits, saying ‘up here’, and Nick’s brain fuzzes out a little when he realises what Harry means. He crawls up Harry’s body, and Harry lays his fingers firmly on Nick’s hips, guiding him in, and Nick says ‘are you sure?’ and Harry grins and says ‘shut up’ and lets his mouth fall open. So Nick feeds him his cock and watches Harry’s eyes sink shut and feels Harry’s fingers dig into his arse, then he leans on his hands, closes his eyes and feels his prick swallowed in the heat of Harry’s mouth and curses himself, because he might remember what a kid Harry is, and what a laugh, and what an idiot, but he always, always, always forgets how Harry Styles lays him, every single bloody time.

It’s careful, the way Nick fucks Harry’s mouth. His breath is shaky as he controls his thrusts, leaning on his elbows above Harry’s head, feeling Harry’s hands brushing down the back of his thighs. He knows he could fuck harder, Harry’d be able to take it, but he likes this, just holding himself back, drawing it out, fooling himself, using Harry’s suction to get himself off, his mouth hot and yielding. At some point he can only feel one of Harry’s hands on him and he’s started making ‘hng’ noises around Nick’s cock and Nick knows he’s wanking himself off. Something loosens inside him and his orgasm starts to travel closer, a slow, sweet build. His arms are shaking a little as he holds himself above Harry and he circles his hips helplessly. Harry’s fingers dig harder into the tender flesh of his arse and that’s it, they’re both coming, Nick making his first noise since they started, a pretty embarrassing high-pitched whimper that takes him by surprise as he spills into Harry’s throat. He feels a warm splatter on the sole of his foot a second after. 

He lifts his arse, pulling out of Harry’s mouth, and tips to one side, flopping onto his back. His heart’s pounding out a beat way faster than the club they’d just left. 

‘ _God_ , that was nice,’ he says on an exhale.

‘You can just call me Harry.’ 

Nick huffs out a laugh despite himself. He props himself on one elbow and looks down at Harry.

‘Still as unfunny as ever, I see Styles.’

‘Yep,’ Harry says, smiling broad and closed-mouthed, his eyes shut. He’s sprawled out, dandling his fingers on his chest as he gets his breath back. Traces of come on his hip and stomach glint in the moonlight as they dry. Nick wriggles down the bed so he’s on a level with Harry and presses a finger into his side in a slow poke. Harry opens his eyes and looks over at Nick.

‘Staying?’ 

‘Naah.’ Nick presses his finger into Harry’s skin again several times. ‘Gotta get back.’ He doesn’t say what for. He’s on holiday; he doesn’t have anything to get back for. He gets up and pads off to find his clothes – left in a trail from where they came in – and ends up fully dressed at the front door. He nearly leaves right then, but he catches himself: this is Harry, whatever else they are, they’re mates. He goes back to the bedroom, to find Harry in the same position, his hands come to rest on his chest, open mouth turned up to the ceiling, gently snoring. Nick smiles and goes over to lay his lips on Harry’s forehead where he pauses a moment, thinking, and then lets himself out. He finds a cab in the village that takes him back to the villa he's sharing with Pix and everyone. He realises it's not that far, just up the valley.

And that’s that. It was nice. It always is with Harry, but Nick never kids himself about what’s possible. He knows Harry will leave the island once the fans and the paps get a sniff of where he is, and anyway, he probably has a load of promo commitments to fulfil. He thinks the film’s coming out soon and they’ve probably got a new album to record. Harry Styles can only disappear off the radar for so long. 

~

Pixie and George find this secluded cove and they all take coolboxes and umbrellas and hang out there in the daytime, drinking themselves into a teatime hangover under the sun, while the salt from the sea dries on their skin, getting mixed with the factor thirty (or fifty in Nick’s case). It’s three days since his hook-up with Harry and Nick’s lying on his front to hide the semi he just got from remembering Harry on his knees in the hallway of his villa, pressing his cheek to Nick’s crotch, his hand stretched up Nick’s torso, tugging at his shirt. Harry might have disappeared, but memories like this still pop into Nick’s head. He breathes deeply and listens to the others playing frisbee down the beach and feels the sun like a physical weight on his back. He thinks of going out tonight, of finding someone to take care of the semi, but it’s nothing urgent. 

He’s dozing, the heat and the lazy wash of vague desire making him feel heavy, his edges blurred, when a couple of voices suddenly rise louder than the others, nearer, making Nick twitch back into wakefulness. He shifts his cheek on his arm and hopes they don’t come any closer, but he can hear them laughing as they come up the beach, Pixie and… someone else, someone male. He can’t work out who it is, and there’s only a pool of four blokes it could be. 

‘Aw, he’s sleeping,’ he hears. That’s Pix.

‘Not for long,’ says the other person and Nick feels cold splashes on his back, making him jerk awake properly. But it’s not just that that makes him push himself half-over to say, ‘What the fuck?’ That’s Harry standing over him, blocking his sun, holding a bottle of water. Pixie’s rummaging in the coolbox a few feet away, behind him, and Harry, well, Harry’s seen it all before, so Nick just stays where he is, letting Harry rake his gaze shamelessly the length of Nick’s body.

‘All right?’ he says when it returns to Nick’s face. 

‘Yes, thanks,’ Nick says. ‘I didn’t know you were still here.’ And it’s the weirdest thing because Harry’s sudden arrival and attention has made his dick subside a bit. It’s the surprise, Nick thinks, or the cold water.

‘I came back,’ Harry says. 

‘Yeah. Robert the yoga guy told him where we were,’ says Pix, coming over with four beers between splayed fingers. She offers one to Harry then one down to Nick. Nick takes it. She snags another two from the cooler and is off down the beach again. Harry takes a swig from his and squints down at Nick. He doesn’t appear to be following Pix. 

‘Not playing frisbee?’

‘In a minute.’ He folds himself down next to Nick’s towel, accidentally flipping some sand onto Nick’s calf.

‘Oi,’ says Nick mildly.

‘Sorry,’ says Harry, leaning forward to brush it off. It’s stuck to the sunscreen so it doesn't do much more than move around scratchily. Nick flicks his foot impatiently.

Harry sits back. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine, Harry Styles,’ he sing-songs. ‘How are _you_?’

Harry bumps him with his elbow. ‘Good thanks. I meant, you know, how’ve you been. It was a genuine enquiry into your wellbeing, not just polite conversation, dick.’

‘Well, since you ask so nicely, I’ve been all right. You know. Busy. Good.’

‘Cool. How’s your mum and dad.’

Nick can’t stop a short laugh. ‘They’re fine too, Haz.’ He looks at Harry over the top of his sunglasses. 

Harry just squints back at him, ‘It’s really nice to see you again.’

‘Only saw me a couple of days ago.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Yeah.’ He does. He always forgets how Harry genuinely means all of this stuff.

He settles back onto his towel, adjusting his sunnies. ‘Now go play frisbee. Leave your grandad to snooze.’ 

He hears a snort then feels a sudden cold pressure on his belly. 

‘Mmf, bastard,’ he murmurs, twitching around it, guessing it’s the bottom of Harry’s beer bottle. He hears movement, then Harry’s voice from above him. 

‘See you later.’

‘Buh-bye,’ says Nick softly, even though Harry’s already halfway down the beach. He passes his hand over the cold spot on his belly. 

When he wakes up, the sun’s gone behind the cliff. This is usually the signal for them to start getting their stuff together to go back to the house. Harry had left about half an hour before, apparently. Nick can’t help wondering what ‘I came back’ had meant. Then he reminds himself that he doesn’t care and pretends to push Aimee off the cliff path.

~

He must care a bit though, because when he looks out of the kitchen window a couple of mornings later, he has a bit of a turn.

‘What’s Harry Styles doing on our back lawn?’ he says, cup of coffee frozen halfway to his mouth.

Pixie joins him at the window, taking a sip of her own. 

‘Downward-facing dog, by the looks of it.’

They’re staying in yoga-land, up north, because they’d all wanted a proper break. And people really do do a fuckload of yoga here. Nick might take the piss, but he joins in sometimes as well. 

‘Right.’

‘Problem?’

Nick shrugs briefly. ‘No. Why would there be?’

That’s what ‘came back’ meant. Being large as life in Nick’s garden, moving into the Crane in nothing but some loose white shorts and a sheen of sweat. Nick feels a churn of emotion: irritation, worry, anticipation. 

‘You going to join him?’

‘What?’ Nick yelps slightly. He catches Pixie’s smirk as she turns away. ‘Naah,’ he says, trying for casual. ‘It looks like they’re nearly finished.’

‘Uh-huh,’ says Pixie sitting down at the big wooden kitchen table. She manages to make those two syllables – that aren’t even words – sound like ‘I’ve got your number, Grimshaw.’ He needs new friends, he decides, ones that barely know him. 

Then Harry bursts in with Robert the yoga guy, and visibly lights up when he sees Nick. 

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘I didn’t know you’d be up.’ And he swoops over and smashes a kiss to Nick’s mouth before going over to the fridge and helping himself to some juice straight from the carton. Pixie’s eyebrows are up in her hair line when she looks at Nick and he mouths, ‘Shut. Up.’ 

‘Robert’s great isn’t he?’ says Harry lowering the carton, a little out of breath. ‘Do you ever do a session?’

‘Now and then,’ says Nick. This time he shares a look with Pixie. They love Harry, but sometimes he’s just so... _Harry_. ‘And you’re welcome, but we usually use glasses here.’

Harry’s forehead scrunches slightly. Nick nods at the carton he’s holding.

‘Oh, sorry!’ he says with a dazzling grin.

 _Fuck off_ , thinks Nick. _Just fuck off_. Harry’s throat works on a last swig from the carton, and just like in the club, Nick finds himself having to make an effort to keep his eyes on Harry’s face. He’s hyper-aware of the rest of Harry’s body, filling the lower half of his peripheral vision, brown with black smudges where the tats are, seeming to fill the whole room. Nick’s face must be doing something he has no control over because when Harry lowers the carton and shrugs.

‘No point now is there? Germs all over it already.’

Nick rolls his eyes and half-smiles. Harry burps softly and says ‘’Scuse me,’ putting the carton back in the fridge. Then, ‘Gotta go.'

He pauses to look at Nick for a beat. The tan makes the green of his eyes really pop. ‘See you soon, though, yeah?’

‘Um. Yeah,’ Nick manages. Then Harry beams again, says ‘ _Sick_ ,’ drawing out the ‘i’, and slopes out of the kitchen after Robert, leaving a faint whiff of fresh sweat and leftover shower gel (something sea-kelpy, Nick guesses), his flip-flops slapping against the terracotta tile all the way down the hall. 

Pixie manages to stay quiet for a full minute after they’ve left and when she speaks, she just says, ‘I always forget how fit he is.’

Nick’s shoulders slump a little. 

‘So do I.'

~

He’s there at the beach in the afternoon, too, turning up just after they arrive, bringing his own cool-bag full of goodies that make everybody ooh and aah. As it’s not as hot today, they decide to play rounders. 

Aimee is appalled. ‘This is _baseball_ ,’ she says, staring as Harry, George, Ian and Mackenzie run out to make up the four corners of a rough square. ‘Brits secretly play fucking baseball. I cannot believe you people hid this from me.’ She sits out in protest, giving loud, non-family-friendly commentary from the sidelines. They give up telling her it’s not called a ‘home-run’ after the third time someone scores a rounder.

Nick’s fielding, which means standing as far away from the action as possible with a beer stuffed into his back pocket. Meanwhile, Harry’s energetically defending his post, getting a couple of the enemy with enthusiastic dives. Nick cheers and hopes it’s their turn to bat soon. He may not be sporty but he’s always preferred batting (no sniggering at the back please), even when he knocks the ball straight to first post and he’s out before he can even start running. He likes the feeling of hope he gets standing there with a bat in his hand, the feeling that _this_ time he might be able to hit it and get it a decent distance, that this time, he won’t shonk it behind him or miss it completely. 

That’s what happens though. He sits cross-legged next to Aimee’s chair and joins in with her cat-calling for a bit before leaning back on his elbows and watching the action through his shades. By all the laws of physics, Harry should be out pretty soon after him. But even though all his limbs are left arms, he manages to stay in. He gets lucky hits and reaches the posts at the final second by just hurling himself at them. Eventually Nick can feel his eyes going and he retreats back behind his umbrella up the beach. Just a little kip and he’ll be up for the next round. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been asleep when he’s suddenly aware of the hissing sound of shifting sand and the air nearby displaced by another body. He slits one eye even though he’s pretty sure he knows who it is without looking. He gets a feeling of déjà vu as he sees Harry stretch out next to him.

‘Wondered when you’d get knocked out.’

‘Could have gone on longer.’

‘Yeah right, Styles.’

‘Could’ve,’ Harry protests without heat. ‘Got bored though, didn’t I.’

‘Did you,’ Nick says neutrally.

‘Yeah.’ 

Harry’s settled on his side now, propped on one elbow, looking at Nick, his gaze flickering down to Nick’s mouth, and it’s pretty obvious what he’s thinking. Although Nick wouldn’t turn it down, he’s not a hundred per cent on board either. A one-time deal when they’re both a bit high and away from home is one thing, but this, hanging out with Nick’s friends, touching without asking; it’s all a bit too much like how it used to be. Then Harry leans forward and kisses Nick, and Nick thinks ‘bingo’ tiredly. He goes with it, but checks Harry with a hand to his cheek, keeping him where he is. They hold it for a long beat, resting their mouths together, rocking a little and Nick hates himself a bit for how much he loves kissing Harry. Then he feels the warm span of Harry’s hand come to rest on his lower belly, his fingertips just grazing the waistband of his shorts. His dick stirs, the blood rushes under his skin and his heart gives a panicky flutter.

‘Haz,’ he says into Harry’s mouth, breaking the kiss. Harry’s hand slides down further. ‘It’s too hot to have sex,’ he tries. It kind of is. 

‘It’s all right. You won’t have to do any work.’

Nick laughs weakly. ‘All right, man of my dreams. How about, “Everyone will see.”’ He nods at everyone further down the beach.

‘I’ll move the brolly. Anyway, they don’t care. They’re gonna be playing for the next half-an-hour. Unless you think it’ll take longer?’

‘God, I’d die in this heat.’ The words pop out before Nick can stop them, and they’ve sealed his fate. 

‘Cool,’ says Harry and scrambles up to rearrange the umbrella more strategically, before lying back down beside him and taking up the kiss again, sliding his hand back where it was. Nick lets himself sink into the kiss and Harry digs his hand all the way inside Nick’s shorts, fingers curling hotly around Nick’s dick, Nick bringing his hand down to cover Harry’s, pushing helplessly into his touch, making himself look like the needy bastard he really is. Harry’s grip tightens and they breathe hot and deep into each other’s mouths as Nick thrusts into his grip, and it feels like they’ve already skipped to that middle stage of fucking, when you’ve got your limbs sorted and a nice rhythm going. They tip their foreheads together as they get Nick off, and it’s nice but Nick’s conscious that it’s all a bit … one-sided. But then Harry’s leaning in closer and closer until Nick can feel his crotch brushing his knuckles, and without thinking he turns his hand to cup him. Harry jerks into his hand and bites Nick’s lip in surprise, making Nick smile slightly. Eventually, with a twisted wrist and wrongly angled elbow, and some puffed tugging of Harry’s shorts from both of them, he’s got Harry’s bare cock in his palm, and it’s so cramped Harry just ends up fucking Nick’s hand while Nick makes it as tight as he can. 

Nick can feel sweat blooming on his face, down his spine, between his thighs. Their breaths are jaggy, out-of-sync, there is yellow-orange-red light behind his eyes, the sauna-heat is building between them, and Nick was right, it’s too hot to have sex, but somehow none of that matters because Harry’s hand is around his cock, dragging his orgasm out of him and they can’t stop. They paddle their tongues together and wank each other steadily, helping each other out with well-timed hip thrusts. He loves the rough slide of Harry’s cock in the tunnel of his hand and before he can stop himself he’s blurted out, ‘I want to fuck you,’ because he has zero bloody self-control. Harry pants out ‘What, now?’ and Nick’s properly screwed (ha) because he says ‘No, twat, later. Some other time. Soon,’ and Harry says ‘Yeeeeah,’ all long drawn out and like it’s the most amazing idea Nick’s ever had. He fucks Nick’s hand harder, and as Nick tries to maintain the pressure around Harry, he thinks, _this wasn’t supposed to happen again_. 

And that’s when they hear the others’ voices coming from the beach, getting unmistakably louder. They still for a second, looking at each other. Then they both say ‘fuck’ in unison.

‘We’ve gotta…’ Nick says, about to drag his hand away and start pulling up his shorts even though he wants to cry because he can fucking _taste_ his orgasm, but Harry tugs him back and carries on moving his hand on Nick’s cock.

‘Come,’ he says, speeding up his strokes. ‘We’ve gotta come.’ Their faces are so close Nick can see the hazel flecks in the green of his eyes, and Nick can hear the others coming up the beach, they can only be about twenty, fifteen metres away now. Harry must see the doubt in his face because his hand dips down suddenly, his middle three fingers stroking roughly down across Nick’s balls and up again, an electric drag of sensation that makes Nick’s eyes sink shut. He hears Harry’s voice, low, raspy, saying, ‘I can’t wait for you to fuck me,’ against Nick’s cheek, ‘I love having you inside me,’ and within three strokes – as Harry knew – Nick’s coming, gasping out, ‘you fucker,’ the hand he’d been jerking Harry off with gone limp and useless.

But Harry’s bringing himself off now, gripping Nick’s gaze as they hear George saying – so clearly it sounds like he must be standing over them – ‘Wonder what the not-boyfriends have been up to?’ and another voice, a bit further away, murmuring ‘ _George,_ ’ - and then Harry’s spilling on Nick’s stomach, bottom lip caught in his teeth, and a breathy whine forced through his nose. Then Nick’s got no time to think because it’s a scramble for their shorts and Harry’s grabbing his hand, pulling him to his feet (nearly taking his shoulder out of its socket) and they’re popping out from behind the umbrella, off down the beach, with cries of ‘Oooh, what have two been doing then?’ following them and fading. 

They splash into the water, Nick’s heart still banging from the orgasm, from running, and possibly about to short out in the cold of the water, but he’s laughing. They’re both laughing as they splash each other clean, Nick pinging the elastic of Harry’s shorts and Harry dunking Nick. As he feels the churn of the water around him, the sting of the salt in his eyes, and the fading sweetness of his orgasm still lapping at his body, he’s not a human body made of separate bits but just colours and light whirling together. 

~

So Nick doesn’t just give in once or twice, but in the sea the same day, Harry’s face turned into the bright sun, eyes closed, blissful as he leans back against Nick and Nick’s hand curls gently round him; and in Nick’s bed later, Harry sprawled under him, his arse soft with lube and Nick fucking him languidly; and later still – a couple of days – against the countertop in the late-night kitchen, with someone dozing on the sofa in the lounge just down the hall, Harry gripping Nick’s hips and frowning with the effort of finding friction between two pairs of shorts; and the night after that on the sofa, the only light the flickering from the silent television as their hands work each other slowly.

When Nick had looked forward to his holiday, he’d seen yellow and blue and light, he’d imagined sun and heat and and dancing and a dazzling garden and the cool quiet of a beautiful house, and it was like that, but patchworked with the brown and green and dull pink of Harry’s body.

He’d thought it was over last winter. And it was. But it turns out his mouth goes dry and his words evaporate when Harry walks into a room in a way they never did before. It’s so different that it feels like this isn’t his life. It’s a place out of time. It’s not like it was before: under the blinding eye of the press, stuffing each other uncomfortably into whatever space they could find in the misshapen pockets of their days, second-guessing their words when they talked about each other, trying to remember who was safe and who wasn’t, who knew and who didn’t. That’d had its own manic appeal, but this is a place where they get to spend days and nights together, and without seeing anything about it in the papers the next day. They’ve got nothing to get up for except the pool before it gets too hot. And the end of the week is rushing towards them quickly, too quickly, but Nick’s glad, because he’s not safe anymore. Harry, with his bad jokes and lumbering ways, has become a danger to Nick, but as long as there’s a limit to this, an end-point, Nick’ll be all right.

And then Harry says this:

‘I want to come back to you.’

And Nick doesn’t know what to say back. So he doesn’t say anything. And he doesn’t say anything. And Harry goes still, his mouth resting against Nick’s hip, and Nick’s fingers stop lightly drawing strands of Harry’s hair between them, and the silence stretches on until Harry gets up carefully and says, ‘I’m going for a shower.’

For the first time in a couple of days Harry checks his phone, then he gets dressed and disappears for the day and Nick gets a text later that night. It says, _Tired. Going back to mine tonight_. There’s no x’s or emojis. Just that, plain words. It could be worse, he supposes. He could have got no message at all. It’s fine. He’s fine. He’s had a good day, hanging out with Pixie and the rest and realising he missed them. And when he goes to bed, he spreadeagles himself and thinks ‘Mmm, _space_.’ 

By four in the morning there are no cool spots left and he’s flipped his pillow four hundred times but it’s still as flat and hot as it was three hours ago and he _hates_ having space and just wants Harry back.

~

'All right, so I didn't want this to go on past the holidays, but we hadn’t fucking _finished_ yet.'

It's late morning. He and Pixie are by the pool on sunloungers, enormous sunglasses over their closed eyes. He’d managed to get a couple of hours kip eventually, but his mouth is sandy and metallic and he’s looking back at his four a.m. breakdown (which may have involved flinging his pillow at the wall) as if it had happened to some stupid, drunk, embarrassing version of himself. 

Pixie wriggles against her lounger, resettling her head. ‘Why didn’t you tell him?’

 _Oh god_ , he thinks. He might have known his friends would be no help, with their logic and their common sense. ‘Because I just wanted a couple more blowjobs, Pix, and he’s gone all romantic. He’s half-pissed on orgasms and sun and thinks he wants a long-distance thing, and it won’t work. Does he expect me to wait around, curling my hair and ironing my knickers?’

He doesn’t tell her that part of him wants what Harry’s offering. He doesn’t tell her he’s become a person who’ll take the three weeks of the year Harry’s in London because that’s all he can get. Nick used to pride himself on being the one person who could keep their head around Harry. Now he’s become just another one of the million idiots who’s fallen for him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Pixie tip her head to look at him. He can only see her mouth. It looks sympathetic. 

‘Shut up,’ he says. ‘Don’t look all sad for me. Tell me what a clingy child he is. Tell me how incredibly mature and together I am. That’s what friends are for.’

‘Aw, look at you,’ Pixie says, sympathy turning to smirk frighteningly quick. ‘Trying to be all icy and distant when really you’re in loo-oooove and just want to get maaa-aaarried.’

Nick sighs. ‘I’m taking you back to the friend shop. I think you might be faulty.’ 

~

Robert comes over later and Nick lets the burn of his muscles take over his brain for a while. It doesn’t do much of a job because while he's holding Sideways Plank for a count of ten and feeling a thin trickle of sweat slide down his spine, he blurts out, ‘See Harry this morning?’

‘Yeah,’ says Robert through his own held breath. ‘’Sgoing tomorrow morning. First flight out.’

‘What?’ squawks Nick, his elbow buckling. 

‘Not sure why. Thought he was staying longer.’ He lets out the breath he was holding in a controlled exhale. He nods over at where Nick’s sprawled on the grass. ‘Want to be careful coming out of that position,’ he says helpfully. ‘Could sprain something.’

Something might definitely be sprained, Nick thinks, he’s just not sure it’s part of his body. He lies on the grass panting for a bit before he starts following the Reverse Warrior that Robert’s doing. It doesn’t matter, he decides. Why should it? So their nice thing had ended sooner than Nick was expecting. Let Harry do what he wants. 

Nick manages to hold onto this idea for the rest of the afternoon, all the way to seven-thirty and his second gin. He’d’ve been all right if Mackenzie hadn’t told everybody the goss from Robert that Harry was leaving, and if Pixie hadn’t given Nick a Special Look over the top of her sunglasses. 

He can’t keep still after that. Two more gins, one after the other. He paces about by the pool, looking out over the valley. Tomorrow suddenly seems a lot nearer than it had at two this afternoon. And Harry’s not just going back to London, he’s going back on tour and he’ll be away for ages. And when he gets back, because Nick didn’t say anything the other day, and because they’re both pretty chilled, laid-back people, who don’t like making concrete arrangements or tying themselves or other people down, Nick might bump into him or he might not, they might shag or they might not. As Nick thinks all this, he can feel a knot of panic slowly rising in his chest. He takes out his phone and fiddles with it. He checks his twitter feed; instagrams a picture of his drink against the sunset, captioning it ‘gin o’clock’; tries to text Harry but can’t get the words right. He stuffs the phone back in his pocket. 

‘Just go over there.’ Pixie’s voice at his shoulder makes him jump a bit. She tucks her arm through his. ‘Say bye properly. Don’t be an arse.’

‘I don’t want to say bye,’ Nick says in a tiny voice.

Pixie is silent for a little while, then tips her head against his shoulder. 

‘You should definitely go over there then,’ she says eventually. 

Instead he decides to drown the knot of panic in alcohol. After several increasingly drunken attempts to write Harry a text he decides the only thing he can do is go over there and somehow explain to Harry in person that he’s really sorry for not saying anything the other day, but he’s just got to bin this whole thing off. Soz and all that, but Harry can’t ‘come back to him’, whatever that meant. 

Not long after that he finds himself reversing the hire car into the shrubs in the front yard. He hears a tapping by his ear. It’s Pixie. Nick stabs the window button (missing it the first couple of goes) and swings his gaze towards her as it whines down. 

‘What the fuck are you doing?’

‘This is your fault,’ he slurs in response.

‘I said you should go over there _four hours ago_ , when you’d only had a couple. I didn’t tell you to get majestically drunk _and then_ drive over there, you terminal fuckwit.’ 

‘No,’ Nick agrees sadly. ‘Yes.’

‘Come on. I’ll make you some coffee.’

Pixie tries the door handle but it’s locked. ‘Nick.’ He’s sunk down in his seat and shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘Call me a cab,’ he says. Pixie sighs. 

‘Maybe that’s not such a good idea. Come inside. I’ll make y...’ 

‘Don’t like coffee,’ Nick rambles over her. ‘Gives me teacher’s breath. I need to talk to him. Call me a cab.’

She breathes out through her nose.

‘Ok, weirdo. But don’t say I...’

‘...didn’t warn you,’ Nick finishes in his most annoying singsong voice.

It turns out the cab will be an hour (this isn’t London after all).

‘I could _walk_ there in that time,’ he says. Then he gets that look on his face that makes Pixie’s heart sink. ‘In fact, fuck it. I’m gonna walk. May as well. Nowt else to do.’

At this point Pixie gives up and goes back to the terrace and the pool where her normal friends are using barbecue tongs to pretend to be bulls and throwing each other in the water and generally being drunk like normal people, not like fucking idiots.

~

After picking his way carefully down the track to the road, Nick marches along determinedly, and for the first half a mile or so it’s all right. Maybe he ought to have changed out of his flip-flops, but never mind. It’s tarmac mostly, so not too hard on the feet and they’re in the middle of nowhere so there’s no cars about. It’s probably a bit stupid, he thinks, what he’s doing. But he’s doing it now, and anyway, it’s a nice night: a bright moon shining down, and warm. There’s mountains and stuff to look at as he walks along. It’s nice. And he’s going to see Harry. At least he’ll get to see Harry once more, before they never see each other again. Harry’s going away on tour – _more_ tour – to fucking Australia and… and those other places down there. The other side of the _world_.

He stops for a minute on the road, pausing to take in the view and think about just how far away Australia and things are. They’re far. And he’s quite tired now. Least he doesn’t have to walk to Australia. Just to the next village over which is... he peers into the half-lit distance... over there somewhere. Quite near now? He pokes hopefully at his scant knowledge of the area. He walks on. Flip-flops are quite thin actually, he thinks. And the tarmac’s not that tidy. Bits of grit and gravel scattered about. Ooh, that was a sharp one. He hops a little. They need to give the road a bit of a sweep. Or a hoover. Do they do that on roads? He’s not sure. 

What will he say to Harry? He’s got to be firm. Sorry, Haz, but we just can’t do this anymore, ’cos I’m not safe anymore. Oops, not that. How about: ‘we can’t do this anymore, ’cos _you’re_ not safe.’ That’s better. _You’re getting too serious, Haz,_ he’ll say. _You’re getting all hung up on this_. Yeah. That’ll work.

Is this the village? He thinks so. He becomes aware of a car in the distance, getting nearer and louder. He looks behind him, sees headlights getting bigger and starts edging over to the verge. Then he thinks the car won’t see him so he swerves back into the road to make himself more visible. But it doesn’t matter because when the car passes him, it’s going so fast, with the driver beeping the horn, Nick’s startled half out of his head, loses his balance and goes toppling into the hedge. 

_Ow, scratchy things_ , is his first thought as he tries to extract himself. Not like a nice English hedge. It tugs at his t-shirt and gets caught in his belt-loops until finally he manages to wrestle himself out of it and back onto the road. He carries on walking. 

He’s coming into the village now. He thinks this is the right place. He starts peering at the houses, trying to remember which one’s Harry’s and then remembers he lives over the other side, on the way out. He’s dragging his feet now the alcohol’s fading away, and he’s beginning to feel a bit foolish. What did he think he was doing? He’s walking in _flip-flops_ to tell some bloke he’s been shagging that they shouldn’t shag anymore, when it was probably blindingly obvious that they’re not going to anyway. Maybe he should turn back. He could try and hitch a lift if another car comes by. But then he wouldn’t get to see Harry, and the thought makes him feel hollowed out. He’s come too far to turn back now.

Then as he takes his next step, his foot goes down straight onto the road, rough grit digging into his bare skin, no thin layer of rubber to protect it, and his big toe’s all twisted. Nick looks down and sees that the flip-flop is hanging onto his toe by one thong and the rest of it is splayed out upside-down like a broken bird’s wing. He sighs and stoops to take the sad shoe off his foot and sees that one thong has come loose. Angling himself towards the best of the moonlight, he gamely prods it back into its hole, then he drops the flip-flop on the floor, wriggles his foot back in and carries on walking. It flaps loose again after a couple of steps. He gives up and just walks on, carrying the pranged shoe, one foot bare, feeling a bit tragic. 

Eventually he’s limping up Harry’s driveway, trying to remember why he’s here. Saying something. He should have said something. He’s a dick. God, he’s tired. He lifts his hand up to the doorbell and the door opens at the same time. That’s clever, thinks Nick stupidly. 

‘What the fuck?’ 

It’s Harry opening the door. He looks lovely. He _is_ lovely. 

‘I’m sorry,’ Nick says. ‘I’m a dickhead. Don’t go.’ 

That’s not exactly what he wanted to say. Never mind. He stands there looking at Harry, swaying on his feet a bit, one flip-flop in his hand and only now beginning to feel the sting from a scratch down his cheek that he must have got from the spiney-hedge-thing. 

‘Oh Jesus,’ Harry says. ‘Let’s get you inside.’ He holds out an arm to Nick. ‘What the fuck did you do to yourself.’

‘I walked,’ Nick says and Harry starts laughing. He guides Nick inside, both hands on his shoulders, and Nick feels hair brush the back of his neck as Harry lands his forehead against the back of his neck and continues to laugh silently. ‘Why are you laughing at me?’ Nick protests, letting himself be manhandled into the lounge.

‘I’m not,’ Harry says, voice still wobbly. ‘It’s nothing. Not laughing, promise.’

He pushes Nick gently down onto the sofa and Nick goes like a sack of potatoes, flopping back against the soft cushions. Harry perches on the edge and peers down at him. He reaches out and runs his thumb gently under Nick’s cheekbone. Nick’s insides go funny. ‘This looks sore. We need to get some Savlon on it. I’ll see if I’ve got any.’

Nick can’t quite believe his ears. 

‘You brought _Savlon_ on holiday to Ibiza, clubbing capital of the world.’

‘You never know,’ Harry murmurs vaguely. He’s not really listening to Nick but bending down to look at Nick’s feet. He hoists the flip-flop-less one onto his knee, and hisses. ‘You fucking idiot. You could need a tetanus jab. God knows what’s got in here.’

‘Tetanus schmetanus,’ Nick says, his head lolling against the back of the sofa. ‘I’ll be all right. Don’t be such a mother.’

Harry places Nick’s foot back on the floor and gets up, looking down at him critically. ‘Back in a minute.’

While Harry’s gone, Nick dozes a bit. 

He startles awake when he feels something cool and damp on his cheek. He opens his eyes to Harry’s face above him and a flannel being wiped gently against his face. He’s not really looking at Nick but focusing on what he’s doing, as if Nick’s his wing-mirror and he’s fine-tuning the position. It’s weird. When Harry’s face is this close, he’s usually about to kiss him, or they’re chatting or giggling or taking the piss, or fucking. Nick doesn’t often get the chance to stare at Harry up close and without interruption like this. Harry’s lovely mouth is pressed together and there’s a little dent of concentration between his eyebrows. And it’s all for Nick, Nick thinks.

‘You’re nice,’ he says, smiling dopily.

A dimple appears in Harry’s serious expression, but he still doesn’t look at Nick. ‘Thanks,’ he says, ducking down for the Savlon. He smoothes the cream carefully over the scratch and once he finishes Nick’s face he gets to work on his foot. He has the same expression of concentration, and works in the same silence. Nick’s beginning to feel himself sobering up. Harry’s hands are gentle. Then Harry says, ‘There,’ and pats his calf. Nick doesn’t move his leg and Harry seems happy to leave it where it is, resting across Harry’s lap.

‘You know, you could have just sent me a text,’ Harry says. ‘Or called.’

The same thing has just occurred to Nick. He remembers thinking of sending a text earlier, but that was years ago now. It had seemed unsatisfactory at the time for some reason. 

‘I know,’ he says. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t. I wanted to see you.’

‘But you could have got a cab or...’ Harry sighs. ‘Fuck it, you’re here now.’ 

Nick slides his leg off Harry’s lap and says, ‘Thanks for...’ he gestures vaguely. ‘... Mending me.’

Harry rests his forearms on his knees and half-looks at Nick then back down at the floor. ‘S’all right,’ he says. ‘Just call me Florence.’

Nick snorts and Harry joins him briefly before they fall silent. Then Harry looks up from the floor and says wrily, ‘So apparently you’re a dick.’ 

Nick sighs. ‘Yeah,’ he says, fiddling with the loose threads at the hem of his cut-offs. For the first time that evening, or maybe that day, or even the whole fucking week, he feels like he can see clearly, and it’s not just to do with the alcohol wearing off. ‘I am. I should’ve... I shouldn’t’ve left you hanging like that.’

Harry shrugs, and his eyes slide away from Nick’s. ‘I s’pose it was a bit intense. What I said.’

‘Um, like. _Yeah_ , it was a bit intense.’ Nick pokes Harry’s knee to get his attention. ‘If you meant, let's make this a regular thing, like, a _thing_ thing, then it's a nice idea. But Haz, I don’t know how you think it’s gonna work.’

Harry looks at his feet. ‘Dunno. I didn’t really think about what I was saying. It just came out.’ He looks sideways at Nick. ‘So you’re not. You’re not against it? I mean. It might be something you want...?’

And Harry’s so unsure Nick’s heart breaks a bit. 

‘I don’t know, Haz. Yes, I do. But I’m not a Disney princess. I’m not going to sit around keeping myself nice for you to take out and play with when you get home.’ 

_If we make a thing of this_ , he doesn’t say, _I’m not going to be able to stop myself falling in love with you_. 

‘I know,’ Harry says. ‘I know you’re not. I wouldn’t _want_ you to be. All I meant was… ’ He rests his hands on his knees as he gathers his words. ‘I’ve had a really nice time here. No. Scratch that. I’ve had a fucking wonderful time. And the thing is, I want more of it. I want to … do this on purpose. I want us to stop pretending we don’t care one way or another if we fuck or not. I don’t mean …’ Harry pauses. ‘Look. Do what you want. Be free, and so will I, because god knows, anything else isn’t practical.’ He looks sideways at Nick, pouting a bit. ‘Even though I hate it when I see you with Nicco or whoever, especially ‘cos he seems like a nice guy.’ 

Nick snorts at this, making him sound a lot more together than Harry’s words are making him feel. 

‘But let me come back to you,’ Harry goes on quietly. ‘And not to you waiting around in your best nightie either, because that’s not you, that’s not who I want. I want you as _you_ , Nick, whoever that is: loud and messy and drunk and beautiful.’ 

Nick swallows. Harry’s parked right on the edge of the sofa, and looking a lot like he did when he came back from Ghana and wouldn’t stop going on about it, and Nick didn’t shut him up because he loved seeing Harry so passionate. And now he’s not talking about a bunch of kids he barely knows, but about Nick. Harry must take Nick’s silence as evidence that he’s not convinced because he’s off again.

‘I mean. I get it,’ he says, looking down. ‘You’re in demand. You’re funny and kind and cool and everybody loves you. So I feel a bit of a knob sometimes, liking you, just one of your million friends, or a sad Radio 1 listener. But I don’t care, not if I get to have you as well.’ 

Nick doesn’t know what to say. There’s a long silence that he realises he can’t let go on, not like last time.

‘Thanks,’ he says eventually, then realises that sounds ridiculous. ‘I mean... that’s nice. I mean. It’s weird that you’re all worried about how in demand _I_ am when you’re Harry Styles from One Fucking Direction. And god knows I'm probably making a huge mistake, but yeah, I'd like to do stuff on purpose with you.’

It’s not adequate, not compared to what Harry just said, but Harry looks at him properly now, not sideways, not like he’s a wing-mirror, and not like he’s some sick kid.

‘I promise it won’t be a mistake,’ he says.

Nick laughs softly. ‘You can’t make promises like that, Haz.’

They sit next to each other on the sofa for a while, both of them staring ahead, not saying anything, until Harry says, ‘Shall we go to bed, then?’ And Nick says yes.

They limp up the stairs, or rather Nick limps-hops-and-skips up the stairs, while Harry holds his hand, and he climbs awkwardly into Harry’s bed and lets himself be undressed because all the adrenaline and alcohol and whatever else has been keeping him going has long burned away and he’s just tired. And when Harry’s lying over him, sliding his knee between Nick’s, bringing their bodies together, maybe it’s the tiredness that makes Nick whisper, ‘I’d quite like you to fuck me,’ into Harry’s ear.

Harry goes still for a second and Nick smiles to himself. 

Then Harry lets all of his weight press Nick into the mattress, like he’s showing his strength and desire but not wanting to hurt Nick, and he whispers shakily, ‘Yes, I’d quite like to do that,’ in return, and Nick growls with pleasure, running his hands down Harry’s back. 

And they fuck, Harry driving into Nick, whimpering a little towards the end, and Nick loves it, having Harry inside him, feeling what Harry usually feels, how it takes over your body and makes you forget yourself, and his orgasm when it comes is almost too much, making him clamp down around Harry (he’d forgotten about that) and making Harry cry out. Nick’s not sure if he’s hurt him, because Harry totally loses his rhythm and just thrusts feebly a couple more times before he comes, with one of those weak, funny-bone laughs falling out of him as he does. He lies there panting and Nick stretches luxuriously under him, hooking his feet over Harry’s calves, feeling Harry slip out of him, and Harry sinks his teeth gently into Nick’s shoulder. ‘God, Nick,’ he says. ‘God.’ And Nick thinks for a second of making that awful joke that Harry had made ten days ago, but he doesn’t.

~

Harry stays. Not much longer – he was always going to have to go – but he stays as long as he was planning to, instead of fucking off the next day, so Nick’s stupid midnight walk wasn’t completely in vain. 

And then Nick goes home, and Harry buggers off to the other side of the world, and no, Nick doesn’t wait around like a Disney princess. He carries on the slightly-more-than-fuck-buddy things he has going with a couple of people, and is very good at not wondering what Harry’s up to while he’s away. 

But when he hears a bag drop in the hallway and Harry’s voice saying hello to Puppy, Nick gets up from the sofa and stands in the doorway watching them. Then Harry looks up and he comes over and they put their arms around each other and everything else disappears for a while.


End file.
